


anthropomythic ecolaw

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: "so you realize you're a monsterfucker. what now?", /slaps tree/ this bad boy can hold so much tenderness, Dryad!Crowley, It Was A Dark And Stormy Night, M/M, Rated T for Tree, and they kiss i guess, he's from Greece so he speaks Greek, includes embedded images with permission of artist, is a good and accurate opening, no one at me, still don't at me about this, text wrap images, there's also Tea so jot that down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28055964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: From the original post:Tree Monster Crowley Rightsbecause if vampires and werewolves are allowed to be sexy and people love them, tree monsters should have that too. And tree monster Crowley is the softest. deserves love.Aziraphale loves the tree outside his home. As it turns out, the tree loves him back. And his name is Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 89





	anthropomythic ecolaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calloftheocean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calloftheocean/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tree Monster Crowley Rights](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/725838) by calloftheocean. 



> Title taken from the poem [_anthropomythos, derew(o)- (dryad)_](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/216374/anthropomythos-derewo-dryad/) by vircapio gale
> 
> Thank you so much to cassie-oh for the beta! <3

There is a tree that grows outside Aziraphale’s bedroom window, it is tall and thin and taps at the glass whenever the wind blows with long, finger-like branches. Perhaps he should be afraid of a tree like this, that scrapes against his home when the wind howls and creaks like an intruder on old floorboards. He never can manage it though, not when he'd grown up in this house and had his first kiss in its shade. 

When he was young he'd climbed to the top in some fit of pique after his brother had claimed he was too scared, too small to climb it. _Gabriel_ had never climbed to the top, the tree wasn't fit for climbing he said, but Aziraphale made it. It took all afternoon and it was slow going, but Aziraphale had tempered his pique into a determination too big for his childish body. 

He made it up to the top right as the sun began to set, covered in twigs and spring-time flowers with dirt and bark under his fingernails. He'd never felt so at home outdoors as he did surrounded by the branches of the tree. And then when he fell, just a little slip in the dying light where he thought there was more branch to stand on, he'd only fallen a foot or two before he was caught. As much as he'd be terrified to try climbing a tree that tall again— _oh_ the follies and arrogance of youth!—Aziraphale had never doubted that the juneberry tree in his yard was the quiet protector of his home.

So, Aziraphale is not afraid, has not ever been afraid, of the tall tree beside his house. It is sturdy and will not fall over and never drops branches large enough to harm his home, so he lets it stay, no matter what his brothers and sisters may think about it encroaching on his property line (they claim to be worried for his pipes, or some such nonsense, but he’s never had any plumbing problems).

In spring it is filled with white, juneberry flowers and once it fruits, it attracts all sorts of birds who sing soft songs. The berries are so beloved by the creatures that there isn’t anything discarded for Aziraphale to clean from his yard.

In the summer the tree provides the perfect amount of shade to his sitting room. Enough that it does not heat uncomfortably from the sun, but not so much that it blocks the light entirely so he can not read comfortably. 

In autumn the leaves turn to a mass of fiery red foliage and are slowly lost Aziraphale gathers them up and presses the prettiest, most perfectly formed ones onto the cards he sends to his friends. The rest he rakes up into large bins, enjoying the feeling of good, honest labor. The task of tidying his home (in all areas but his library or office) feels like an accomplishment to be proud of. His tree gives him something to be proud of.

In winter when the tree is bare, Aziraphale hangs lights on it to keep it bright. He gazes at it happily as it twinkles like the stars are hung in its branches, and Aziraphale feels closer to the burning balls of light than he ever has before.

And tonight it is winter and the tree is bare and there is a storm outside, raining hard enough Aziraphale begins to fear the windows might break for how the tree pounds at them with every gust of wind. He hunkers down in bed, wrapped up in his blankets and resting on pillows while he reads by gentle glow of lamplight, and if he weren’t so worried it would be the perfect night indeed.

Then, the window breaks. It shatters with a great crack and dread pools in Aziraphale’s stomach as the scratching of the tree disappears from hearing. He worries he will find the tree on the ground outside, or halfway through his window and there will be flooding in his sitting room from all the rain. _Oh, what a nightmare!_ He thinks, already cataloging the damage to his books. 

Aziraphale puts on his outdoor slippers, just in case there were glass shards where he couldn’t see, and carefully treks down to the floor below. He hadn’t thought to turn on the lights as he descended the stairs and there is nothing nearby to illuminate his home. Even the moon and the stars have been blotted out by the storm clouds above. But he knows his way around this place, he and the tree have lived here for nearly two decades now., Thinking about it he mourns just a little. It was a tree, not a dear friend of course, but there’s something to be said for the dependability of trees. They last a long time, longer than most humans, and they hold all sorts of secrets, things to trade in gossip with the bees in order to get their flowers pollinated. 

He will miss the dear thing. The thought of no more little puddles of delicate, white flowers coating the roots like a blanket or perfectly shaded summer afternoons is upsetting; he’ll even miss the raking the leaves when the time comes, he is sure. But... there isn’t anything he can do about it, not really, not tonight at least other than perhaps drag a shower curtain and tape up the window so he doesn’t flood overnight.

Aziraphale steps down off the stairs and the wood floor beneath his foot creaks in the dark. Lightning has started up since he left his bedroom, nowhere close by, not really, but enough to light the room in bursts and flashes. Though Aziraphale thinks it might be easier to see without it mucking up his dark vision. He’d always been one to adjust quickly after leaving the light. 

He turns the corner from the hall into the room, steeling himself for the mess he might find, and does not gasp as lightning flashes to illuminate the room, throwing his books and chairs and blankets into stark relief. 

“H– hello,” Aziraphale stutters, sure that if he had a torch in his hand he would have dropped it like a bad horror movie. A large, inhuman figure looms in the broken window, the gauzy curtains meant for diffusing light rather than blocking it fluttering around its waist. 

The figure hunches at the shoulders, rounding its back, and Aziraphale stands in fixed terror at the thought of it getting ready to pounce on him, preparing to rip him apart, but it only steps forward. The next flash of lightning reveals its face. Smooth wood with barely a nose to speak of and long, horn-like branches growing gnarled and whorled from its temples. It looks... it is amazingly human in shape, with eyes the color of amber sap and soft-looking lips, and no hidden fangs that Aziraphale can detect. 

“Hello,” the creature croaks and its lips part in what looks like wonder. Aziraphale’s eyes are transfixed on it so intently that he doesn’t notice it reaching out with long, gangling limbs and twiggy fingers. The touch is gentle, and Aziraphale is so distracted by the creature’s appearance that he doesn’t realize it’s upon him, until the texture of bark on the side of his neck shocks him back to reality. 

Aziraphale flinches back and nearly falls over his own feet. He closes his eyes and braces for it, but the landing never comes. Large, steady hands wrap around his waist and press along his spine in a way that speaks of a genteel nature and comfort. 

“I am... sorry,” the creature says slowly, its tongue surely wooden in its mouth and clearly unused to human words. His accent is thick and almost Russian-but-not-quite. There is emphasis on the s’s and r’s and the creature draws out the e’s. It is something that is wholly familiar and yet... not. Aziraphale has heard similar accents from humans and it feels simultaneously out of place on this creature and like he should have known its thick, heavy voice would sound like this if only he had given it some thought.

“For what?” Aziraphale hears his own voice drift from his mouth, thin and wavering. He’s unsure and showing it and for some reason that is the thought that jerks him back into his body fully. Must be the shock, surely.

“Scaring you,” the plant creature says, and Aziraphale jerks back but can’t actually move in its hands as its head looms closer and closer until... he can feel soft, silken hair? Aziraphale opens his eyes from where he had closed them and stares up at the creature above him, marveling at the tips of dark, wine-red hair tickling his cheeks and his neck. 

The creature shifts until it is of the same height as Aziraphale. It is crouched down on its odd legs and digitigrade feet and the intense interest on its face makes it look almost childlike.Its eyes never leave Aziraphale’s and he isn’t sure at all what to think of it.

“I’m Aziraphale,” he blurts out as the silence turns unsettling with the creature’s hands still around his waist and on his back.He is only more unsure of what exactly is happening when the creature smiles, its eyes go bright and it—he?—leans in to murmur back:

“I am Crowley.”

“I– ah, I don’t under–” Aziraphale stutters and looks around the room, a flush high on his cheeks at the closeness to the creature and how unbearably tenderly it– he– _Crowley_ looks at Aziraphale. “I don’t understand, why are you here?”

Crowley tilts his head in something akin to confusion, or maybe it was only him gathering his thoughts, before he responds, “Σ'αγαπώ.” He speaks in a language that is utterly unfamiliar to Aziraphale with a deftness belied by his earlier clumsiness in English. Distantly, Aziraphale scolds himself for assuming this tree man’s native language would be English... what a silly assumption. 

“O– oh, well then...,” Aziraphale whispers once he is sure the creature is done speaking. “I uh... ha, well it’s all Greek to me, my dear,” he mutters and absent-mindedly pats its face in the same way he might have dragged his fingers along the bark of the tree outside. 

Crowley frowns lightly and purses his lips before leaning in once more, until Aziraphale’s nose is nearly brushing the center of his face, and he is helpless to do anything but answer the oddly magnetic, fae pull. He sways forward, just a little. 

“I have seen you,” Crowley says softly, breath like petrichor and earth and sweet flowers in the summertime against Aziraphale’s lips.

“You take my leaves. And you like the flowers. I give them to you, Ahzirafale,” Crowley continues in his short, halting sentences. Aziraphale’s name is thick and rich like honey from Crowley’s tongue, and it makes him shake even as he is held secure. “For many springs and summers I see you. For as many winters you have seen me. So, I am alive. Like you, instead of only like me. To see you better... I do not want others with you to sit in my shade. I want to sit with you instead.”

Aziraphale's breath punches from him like a revelation and he looks towards the window, which is still broken and leaking rainwater. The lightning lights up outside revealing the utter lack of a tree that had been taller than his house and should have left at least some mess in his yard if it had fallen...

He looks forward again to face the creat– Crowley, and breathes in a soft gasp as it– _his_ hands move to Aziraphale’s side and up to his shoulder, tender and gentle beyond measure. 

Wooden lips are surprisingly malleable and remind Aziraphale of the feel of the inner, living wood of a tree that’s been smoothed and polished until it feels like soft, old paper, but without the worry of tearing it. 

The kiss only lasts a few moments, but there is no part of Aziraphale that could still be afraid, not at all, not when it is his tree that he loved and sat beneath and rested in when he wandered outside who is watching over him and keeping him from harm. Not when he looks at Aziraphale so plainly and ardently that there is no way he could ever think to misinterpret the depth of affection in those eyes. There is no way for Aziraphale to not feel like he has been caught in a flood he was entirely unprepared for, but is pleased to be in the midst of anyway. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs softly after Crowley moves away once more, giving him room to breathe in. "Oh," he repeats again for good measure.

There was a lot in there, in a single kiss. Nothing like the things in fairy tales —though he's kissing a tree-man, a dryad? So perhaps he's in a fairy tale after all— where it's true love's kiss or bust, but there's something in it. There's a lot of somethings, a lot of things that could be promised… and there's a lot more in the drawing away. 

"I– I don't know–" Aziraphale frets and doesn't pull himself out of Crowley's grasp, the hands around his waist and on his shoulder feel like safety, like slipping and being caught and not falling after all so there's no need to be afraid but his heart is pounding like he'd fallen anyway and–

Crowley steps back again, his hands fall from Aziraphale and back to his sides, and he hunches again so that he doesn't loom as he watches Aziraphale and how his face must _surely_ be going through the whole catalog of _expressions_ , and he does not seem upset…

He smiles, Crowley smiles a small, shy smile and says simply, "You do not have to know. Not right now. I can wait until you do. Which ever way you choose. I am not harmed to wait for your sureness." The way he speaks so deliberately is soothing to the frayed ends of Aziraphale's anxiety, the natural state of his nerves is frazzled and they feel like live wires most of the time, sparking and jolting him at every perceived wrong move. But they're capped now, they're not longer live, they're grounded, because the way Crowley says things… they sound so simple.

Aziraphale does not have to give an answer now, he may wait, and Crowley may wait, until he is sure; and perhaps, that is the thing that makes Aziraphale the surest. Because no one has ever wanted to wait for him before, not like this, not for him to make up his mind about something that everyone else seems to be able to know about themselves right away. Because he's slow and steady and fiddly and particular about how he likes his things and his life _just so_ , but Crowley isn't trying to change his life. He's only trying to be a part of it.

Aziraphale knows, that when he makes his decision, that will be it. He won't falter, he won't stray from it, and for some people that is too much of him. But he doesn't think it will bother Crowley.

So he does the only thing that comes to mind and he steps forward and reaches out to take Crowley's hand. It's large, so much larger than his own are; his wrists are as wide and thick as Aziraphale's whole palm even though Crowley _looks_ plenty spindly, there's no way he could ever move Crowley if he didn't want to be and– Crowley follows him, allowing Aziraphale to bustle the tree-man over to his couch and settle him there, eyes flicking over to the open window. He holds a finger up.

"You stay, I'll put on the kettle and– and I'll fix the window, or _something_ and we'll have tea and… talk. We'll talk." Aziraphale nods to himself and Crowley's thumb brushes over his knuckles where their hands are still joined. His brain short-circuits a little bit, but then stutters back to life like an old car, chugging along even as it backfires. Crowley nods and Aziraphale rushes to the kitchen to make tea.

He fetches two cups and frets about both of them being too small for Crowley, though he doesn't have anything better ( _yet_ his traitor-mind whispers delightedly, and _oh_ perhaps, for once in his life, he has done something fast). While the kettle comes to a boil he tapes up the window with a shower curtain he'd never put up in the guest bath. 

And then he takes Crowley tea. He chooses an herbal one called Mountain Shepherds’ tea, meant to combat colds in the chilly weather and also supposed to help minor anxiety—even if what Aziraphale has is more than minor—and sits beside him on the couch. Crowley has barely moved at all, except to watch Aziraphale scurry back and forth, staying exactly where Aziraphale put him, and that shouldn't warm him underneath his sternum but it does. 

The simple, easy way Crowley has done exactly as Aziraphale asked, even when it was without words, and has made himself already so natural a fixture in his home fills Aziraphale’s chest with an effervescent joy. They talk about everything and nothing and sometimes Crowley blinks in frustration when his tongue slips up on words he thinks he should know but can’t quite recall, and sometimes he slips into Greek and then back into his halting English. Aziraphale's heart aches for the tenderness that never leaves Crowley's eyes, even when he's frustrated at language.

He learns that Crowley likes the tea very much. Aziraphale laughs and makes him a new cup and when Crowley shyly takes the second, it is with a small smile that Aziraphale thinks he'd like to hoard for himself. The feeling, Aziraphale realizes, must be what Crowley meant when he said he wanted to sit beside him rather than see others in his shade. And so, Aziraphale sits just a little closer than before and sometimes when Crowley gestures as he talks of valleys and mountain-sides he's loved before and the stars to be seen from them, his hands brush over Aziraphale's knee. 

Aziraphale learns that he likes the way Crowley's cheeks darken when he slips up and chokes on his words, not from frustration but from the chaste, accidental touches they share. He leans in closer and closer each time it happens until Crowley finally seems to realize just how comfortable Aziraphale is with him. Crowley stops mid-sentence, trailing off in the midst of a tale of serpens and its constellation in the sky, and waits patiently for Aziraphale to change the tone of their interaction. 

Crowley has said he would wait, however long or short that wait would be, and it is up to Aziraphale to be brave about what he wants, even though it is three in the morning and there is a storm outside still pouring down and the carpet by the window is all still wet.

“The storm must be fierce, to keep you from being a tree…" Aziraphale murmurs, he braces himself for the leap of faith he is making, and leans to the side until his shoulder rests on the side of Crowley's chest. The tough bark of Crowley's body suddenly seems much softer when he can feel the inhale and exhale of Crowley’s chest. "Would you like, perhaps, I mean only if you like, to stay? Inside, I mean. With me?”

Crowley hums and it vibrates through all of him until Aziraphale can think of nothing but a large cat purring, and he thinks that maybe happiness is to be wrapped up in the bough-arms of Crowley. 

“Yes. I would like.” Crowley says.

**Author's Note:**

> It's linked as the inspired by work up top, but please also check out the original art by [calloftheocean here](https://call-of-the-ocean.tumblr.com/post/636161970484183040)! (There is a slight difference in the fic I originally reblogged on Tumblr and what this ended up being, namely that it is almost exactly half the size.)
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr [@D20Owlbear](https://d20owlbear.tumblr.com/) or see me on twitter [@Great_Ass-aFire](https://twitter.com/Great_Ass_aFire)!


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